


rare and sweet as cherry wine

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (claude owns the bar), F/M, M/M, Vampire AU, be warned: there are elements of dubious consent in chapter 1, but first i needed to establish sylvain's character angst as a Powerful Tortured Vampire, sylvain is an asshole and this first chapter is evidence of that, there will be many more characters added, this will eventually be sylvix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-11-02 02:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Sylvain is heir to House Gautier, one of ten powerful, full-blooded vampire families in Fodlan. Felix is a bartender at the White Wyvern, Fhirdiad's only vampire-human bar. In a world where Sylvain's title and power can get him anything he wants—and much hedoesn't—Felix is a welcome exception.That is, until he isn't.





	rare and sweet as cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> warnings in this chapter for: dubious consent, some misogynistic language

The first time Sylvain finds himself at the White Wyvern, it’s because of a girl.

“It has something for the both of us,” she’d cooed at him, stroking her delicate hand down his arm. At his blank stare, she’d said, “You know what I mean,” and tilted her neck to bare her throat at him. He’d swallowed, following the curve of her throat with his eyes, his hand, his lips; and, grazing his teeth against the jut of her jugular, he’d hummed his approval.

Now they sit across from each other in the only joint human-vampire bar in Fhirdiad, deceptively small as it is. Sylvain had heard of it, of course, but he’d never thought to visit—why would he willingly engage with humans and vampires at the same time? He got enough attention at human bars; he didn’t need his family name it make it even worse.

But his date had dragged—_coerced_, he thinks as he recalls the press of her tits against his chest—him here, and so here they sit, one decidedly more excited than the other.

“Cornelia—”

“Please, call me Nellie,” she interrupts, batting her lashes. She leans towards him, arms crossed under her ample chest.

“_Nellie_,” he says, and has to bite his tongue to keep from asking how that’s any better than _Cornelia_. His gaze lingers on her throat, pale and sweet and bared. _She’s done this before_, he thinks, _and even if she hasn’t, she knows what she’s doing_. He clears his throat, tip of his tongue poking at one elongated fang. “How did you hear about this place?”

She rolls her eyes, resting one plush cheek against a fist. “Through a friend,” she says, and waves her hand. “Does it matter? I thought you’d want to talk about something more…interesting.” She pouts into her drink. Sylvain had laughed when she’d ordered a goddamn Bloody Mary, but not for the reasons she’d hoped. He’d made the mistake of making eye contact with the bartender, a slight, somewhat…_angry_ man, who had taken her order with such aggression Sylvain had hardly been able to contain himself.

Sylvain leans across the table, fingers laced in front of him on the sticky wood. “You’re right,” he murmurs, allowing his eyes to drift from her pouting lips to her throat to her tits, heaving toward him with every breath. He realizes now she _hasn’t _done this before; her pale skin is unmarked, shivering with the stuttering of her heartbeat. She preens underneath his gaze, a pretty flush creeping from her cheeks to her ears, coloring the soft expanse of flesh above her low, low neckline. Looking up at her through dark lashes, Sylvain purrs, “Tell me about yourself, Nellie.”

“Oh,” she squeaks, cheeks darkening. “I, uh, well.” She licks her lips and Sylvain follows the movement with his eyes, desperately wanting to chase it with his tongue.

“Yes?” he presses. She wasn’t prepared for the draw of a full-blooded vampire, he realizes. Perhaps she’d practiced with lessers, maybe even those newly turned, but never with a vampire with blood of the Ten. He grins, fangs sharp against his lower lip. Her heart races in her chest, a rapid _thump-thump-thump _that Sylvain can feel in his gums.

She seems to gather herself then, squaring her shoulders and forcing her head back. A flush still colors her cheeks, but she pulls her eyes back to her drink, temporarily breaking the spell. “My name’s Cornelia,” she says, voice low but steady. “Nellie to friends.” She allows a small smile, coy, and flits her gaze to his for the briefest of moments. “I’m twenty-six, I have nursing degree, and I work down the street at St. Seiros.” Sylvain watches the rise and fall of her breasts as she forces another breath. “I have two dogs, a fish I inherited from my brother, and a bad collection of romance novels.”

Sylvain cocks an eyebrow, taking a sip of his own drink. The bartender had scoffed at him when he’d ordered it—“Seriously? You’re a type O guy?”—but he had to admit, it was artfully made.

Licking the blood from his lips, Sylvain says, “Romance novels?”

Nellie laughs, high and sweet. “Not something I’m proud of,” she admits. “A friend turned me onto them, and…well. It’s a guilty pleasure.”

Sylvain nods. “I’ve got a few of those, myself.”

She laughs again, more of a giggle this time. “Oh, really?” she teases, leaning down to take a sip of her drink. Sylvain watches as her lips curl sweetly around her straw, her tongue peeking out to catch a stray drop. “Like what?”

Chuckling, Sylvain shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, reaching across the table to raise her chin when she pouts. “We were talking about you, weren’t we?”

“But I want to know more about you,” she whines, shuddering as she tries to keep herself from leaning into Sylvain’s touch. “All I know is that your name is Sylvain, you’re a vampire of House Gautier—”

“What?”

“You’re Sylvain Gautier,” she repeats. “Uh, am I wrong?”

He pauses before admitting, “No.”

Nellie shrugs, reaching for her drink. “But that’s just…all I know,” she says. Blushing, she adds, “I’d like to know more.”

For Sylvain, she already knows too much. How she found out he was a Gautier—how she discovered he was descended from one of the Ten, let alone which _one_—is a deeply unsettling unknown to him, and a loose end he’ll need to tie up before the end of the night. _Is that why she came?_ he wonders, grim. Nellie didn’t just want a vampire, then; she wanted a full-blooded one, a _pure _one, one who—she thought—couldn’t say no to her sweet, innocent, _human_ wiles. To the hot, wet blood flowing through her veins.

Fine.

Meeting Nellie’s gaze, Sylvain leans in, flaring the full extent of his aura with bared fangs. “How much more could you need to know?” he murmurs, tracing the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. Her lips part for him, tongue warm and wet. He hums, tilting his head and baring his throat. She mirrors his movements and his clicks his tongue. “You could keep asking me questions, Nellie, and we could continue sitting here, just like this, separated by a dirty table in a dirty bar, your cunt so wet I can _smell_ it—or,” Sylvain purrs, “we could cut the questions short and go back to your place, where I can fuck you properly.”

Sylvain watches as Nellie shudders, full-body, the pulse-point at her throat beating rapidly. She crosses her legs under the table and Sylvain smirks. “So? What do you say, Nellie?”

Her eyes meet his, pupils blown and cheeks flushed. She bites her lip and swallows thickly. “Take me home, Mr. Gautier,” she says. 

Sylvain swallows his rage at the use of his last name and stands, holding out his hand. “It would be my pleasure, Cornelia.”

She takes his hand and smiles, shivering at the touch. Her hand is hot in his, soft and fragile; he can feel her heartbeat against his fingers. He presses an open-mouthed kiss against the pulse-point at her wrist, tongue pressing ever-so-slightly against the flush of her skin. She moans, _loudly_, and Sylvain hears a sharp “Ahem,” behind them.

Casually, fluidly, Sylvain turns to face the bartender. He’s got his hip cocked, one hand on his waist, a wet cleaning towel in the other. Dark hair hangs loosely about his scowling face. “Alright, _Gautier_,” he snaps, and his anger is _entirely_ unwarranted. “Close your tab and get a room.”

Nellie has plastered herself against Sylvain’s side, cheek hot against his bicep. Reaching into his pocket, Sylvain pulls out his wallet, glancing through it before throwing it on the counter. “Take what you need,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll come back to get it tomorrow.”

The bartender’s mouth opens, shuts. “You’re a fool,” he finally says, and grabs the wallet. Holding eye contact with Sylvain, he slides it into his back pocket, raising a brow as he does so. Taunting, almost—if his lips weren’t pressed into such a deep scowl.

Sylvain turns away and leads Nellie from the bar, arm thrown around her shoulders and fingers playing idly at her throat. Once they step out into the brisk fall air, he asks, “Where to, Nellie?”

“I live just down the way,” she says, hesitant to pull too far away. Her eyes flutter every time Sylvain’s thumb brushes her jugular. “I, uh, have an apartment about three blocks from here. To be close to work.”

“Lead the way,” Sylvain says, and she does.

It takes them less than ten minutes to reach her home; she walks as fast as she can without running, Sylvain matching her stride with a quiet, private laugh. They’re normally desperate by this time of night, but it’s rare he has to do so _little_. He hadn’t been lying, earlier, when he’d said he could smell—

“Here,” she says, as she pulls open the door. Sylvain sniffs once, discreetly, and determines this must be a humans-only apartment complex; he won’t attract any undue attention. He nods and smiles, ushering Nellie inside before closing the door behind them.

It’s a small apartment, quaint, almost. It’s quiet but for the rapid beating of her heart, so much louder now without the buzz of the bar. She reaches for him, puts his back to the door, and kneels.

It’s not the best blowjob he’s ever received, but it might be the messiest, and he can at least give her points for that. She mouths him head to balls, tongue warm and wet against his shaft; she’s impatient and eager, gagging as she struggles to take him in, spit-slicking his cock before she pulls off and _breathes_. Her lips are swollen, cheeks hollowed, strings of spit caught on his cockhead every time she pulls away.

Sylvain admires her for a bit, like this. The threat of his aura hums around them, a thick, hazy fog against Nellie’s body. He wonders, briefly, if he would have allowed himself to enjoy this moment more, had she not revealed her intentions so early. House Gautier, really—what a _stupid_ mistake for her to make.

Threading his fingers in her hair, he pulls, shuddering at the _pop_ her mouth makes when pulled from his cock. She breathes heavily at his feet, looking at him through dark lashes, lips slick with spit and his own precum.

“Get up,” he says, and his voice echoes, reverberates, rattles through her. She stands, leaning against him, seeking his mouth before he pulls out of reach. She smears her lips against his collarbone, blunt teeth raking at his skin. Her fingers tremble against his chest, pushing against the buttons of his shirt, and he’ll give her this. As she parts his shirt he reaches under the skirt of her dress, trails his fingers along the damp of her thighs, feels himself swell at the slick that gushes from her cunt. She’s got her mouth fastened to a nipple by the time he shoves two fingers inside of her, and she yelps and wails, thrashing as he thrusts rough and rapid.

“Oh,” she weeps, “oh, oh, _oh_,” and just when she starts to clamp down—just as he flicks his knuckle against her clit—he pulls out, pulls away, and feels the air around them shimmer with her cry. _Good_, he thinks.

“Bedroom,” he says, intent on making her walk. She manages, small as the apartment is, with her palm supporting her weight against the wall. “Bed,” he says when they reach it, and she whimpers, flushed and hot and desperate under the weight of his aura. She gasps for breath as she lies on the bed, tits heaving against the cage of her dress, and Sylvain takes pity.

“Strip,” he orders her, and she hastens to comply. She’d worn no bra or underwear for their date; with the removal of her dress her body lies bared, and Sylvain thinks he might have found her beautiful, once.

He steps over to her, pants pushed down around his thighs. He’ll undress no further, he thinks. Nellie can ride him to orgasm just fine with his clothes on. So he sits on the bed, leans back against her wall of pillows, and motions to his lap. “Ride me,” he says, “_Cornelia_.”

His aura thrums as she straddles him, arms locked around his neck and she lines herself up. It’ll be a stretch, he knows, but she’ll do it—she’d impale herself on his cock if he asked. The blood of the Ten would allow nothing less.

She sheaths him slowly, in small, trembling motions. She’s trying her best, and it’s cute, Sylvain thinks, but they haven’t got all night—

His hands find her hips and pull _down_, sinking himself within her in a single fluid motion. She cries and shivers and whimpers, thrashing on his cock, fingers flexing against the nape of his neck as her body struggles to accept him. “_Sylvain_,” she gasps, walls rippling around him. “Sylvain, please, I—”

He gives a shallow thrust and she wails, a sound echoed by his aura as it presses, heavy, around them. He thrusts again, as gentle as he can manage, thrilling when her nails draw blood at the base of his skull. Pressing his lips to her temple, he whispers, “Come on, Nellie, you can do better than this.”

She nods brokenly, beginning to rock her hips against his own. “_Mmm_,” Sylvain continues, encouraging, “that’s it, you’re such a good girl, taking my cock like that—”

She rides him in earnest now, tits bouncing with every move of her hips, and Sylvain watches through half-lidded eyes. It’s admirable, how hard she’s trying, and he’s a little surprised she hasn’t asked yet.

Finally, she buries her face against his neck, spit dripping from her open mouth. “Please,” she whimpers, meeting each of Sylvain’s thrusts, “_please_,” and, “Sylvain,” and “_I need you_.”

Again, he takes pity, and says, “Touch yourself for me.” Her hand finds her clit, rubbing impatiently, and as she clenches around him she cries, “_Bite me_—”

There it is, Sylvain thinks. But, at this point, who is he to reject her?

So he flips their bodies, presses her down into the mattress, and finds her throat with his teeth. The bite is an easy one; her hands fly to his hair, sticky with her own slick, holding his face against her neck as she sobs. Even after her orgasm finishes, even after she’s soft and pliant and overstimulated beneath him, he keeps thrusting, keeps drinking, pushing her through another painful peak. Her second orgasm pulls Sylvain’s own from him, wrenching it from his body with a grunt.

By the time he pulls away she’s weak from orgasm and blood loss, the bite at her neck messy and leaking even after he laves it with his tongue. She blinks up at him, bleary and tired, the look of someone well-fucked and somewhere between life and death.

“Turn me,” she whispers, and even though he knew it was coming, Sylvain sours.

“No,” he says.

“_Please_,” she says weakly. “Please, I—I earned it—”

Sylvain barks laughter, turning to face her from where he sits on the bed. “Like hell,” he spits, and she’s too drained to look hurt. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.” He glances over her, taking in her pale, exhausted appearance. Humming, he adds, “You may not be, come morning. I took a lot of blood.”

“_Then turn me_,” she cries, voice cracking. “I don’t need that much, you know that, just a drop of your blood—”

“No,” Sylvain repeats. He stands, tucking himself back into his pants and buttoning his shirt. He’s a mess, he knows, but it’ll do for the walk back to the bar.

Nellie reaches for him and he dodges easily, rudely, moving towards the exit.

“If I die, Sylvain,” Nellie calls behind him, “you’ll—”

“I’ll what? Get in trouble? Jesus, Nellie, you really don’t know how things work around here.” Before he opens the door, he glances back. She’s still lying on the bed, arms reaching toward him. A sickly mockery of pity stirs in his chest. “Goodbye, Nellie,” he sighs. “Thanks for the sex. Enjoy the rest of your life.”

“Sylvain!” he hears her cry as he steps out of the apartment. “Sylvain, please, I’m begging you!”

_She’ll probably make it_, he thinks to himself as he steps outside. A harsh wind meets him where he stands, sending a chill down his spine. He tucks his hands into his pockets, licks his lips, and sets off for the White Wyvern.

Regardless of Nellie’s fate, he’ll not leave his wallet in the hands of a stranger til morning.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter made me do it, yes the title is from a hozier song
> 
> if you made it to the end of chapter 1, thank you! i have the majority of it planned out, but i have a couple of other fic i need to finish up, as well. it'll get a bit less dark as time goes on, but i can't promise much...it is an angsty, bloody vampire AU, after all ;)
> 
> comments always appreciated! you can also yell at me on twitter @ nishtabel.


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